


The Arrangement

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Crying, Darkfic, Dehumanization, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotic Electrostimulation, Established Relationship, Established relationship Finch/Reese, Finch whump, Forced Ejaculation, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rectal douching, Reese whump, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Sadism, Submission, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt from lunasky3 at the POI Kinkfest.</p><p>Prompt: <i>To save a number, Harold has to lend John to Elias.</i></p><p>Chapter 1: NOTHING GRAPHIC ON-PAGE. Implied non-con and violence. Can be considered a complete story on its own.<br/>Chapters 2–?: GRAPHIC CONTENT ON-PAGE. Explicit non-con and violence.</p><p>Originally, this was only meant to be a one-chapter story, and it *can* be considered complete if you stop reading at that point.</p><p>However, due to requests to expand upon it, I am adding further chapters. Chapters after the first one DO contain GRAPHIC CONTENT.</p><p>Thanks to acmac for beta'ing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the POI kink meme: the-ragnarok.dreamwidth.org/36632.html
> 
> First chapter edited to change timeline, in anticipation of posting subsequent chapters.

\-----Friday, June 7, 2013—7:58pm-----

Anthony Marconi opened the door of the opulent mansion and smiled at their expected guest. “John, you’re right on time. Come on in.”

Reese didn’t return the greeting. He silently trudged into the foyer, wearing the same suit he’d sweated in while saving a Number. He carried his usual overnight bag.

Anthony looked John over and took a sniff from a respectful distance away. He lowered his voice to a mutter. “No time to shower, eh?”

John looked down at the marble floor and said nothing.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Anthony continued warmly. “You know where the guest bath is. Come find us in the dining room when you’re ready.” He turned to leave John to himself, and to rejoin the festivities taking place elsewhere in the house. “But don’t take too long.”

John made his way to the guest bath and stripped as the shower water got warm. He tried to relax. Hot water pounded his his back, but did little to ease his aching body or the knots his gut was twisting into. He would have preferred to wash up at his loft, but after getting the Number taken care of that evening, there just hadn’t been time for him to do anything but grab his bag and head to the Tarrytown estate where he was obligated to spend 12 long hours.

  


<<<<<\-----(Rewind: earlier that same day) Friday, June 7, 2013—6:46pm-----

“Can I do anything?” Finch asked gently, his eyes mournful.

Reese shook his head, his face stone, as he stowed his weapons in his loft’s pantry-turned-armory and double-checked that his overnight bag contained everything he would need.

Finch stood nearby, not sure what to do with his hands. No matter how many times Mr. Reese told him that he really didn’t mind these appointments that much, that he’d had training for this, Finch couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept John’s carefully-practiced acceptance of the situation.

There was always so much Finch wanted to say— _You don’t have to do this. If you changed your mind, I wouldn’t think any less of you. I may ask you to risk your life to save the lives of others every day, and I am so very grateful that you do, but I never intended for this to happen. I could never ask you to do this, even if it does save someone._

And— _Please let me take your place._

And— _I’m so sorry._

After the first time John had gone on this errand, he’d asked Harold to stop saying these things. It only made it harder, he’d explained.

As John turned to be on his way, Harold took him into a fierce embrace and didn’t let go.

“You are more precious to me than my own life,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. This was the one thing he could never stop himself from saying, despite John’s earlier request

John slumped his shoulders for several moments in Finch’s enfolding arms, savoring the sanctuary they provided. Then he placed a soft, lingering kiss on the older man’s temple before gently breaking away from his grasp and walking out the door.

  


>>>>>\-----Friday, June 7, 2013—8:15pm-----

John sighed heavily. He turned the knob to change the water temperature from warm back to hot, then turned the valve that switched the waterflow from the flexible metal enema hose back to the shower head. Now that his inside was clean and prepared, it was time to clean his outside. He wet a luxuriously thick washcloth and added a dollop of the vanilla-scented shower gel that Elias liked to so much.

He scrubbed away the day’s perspiration and grime, fighting back the urge to vomit. He’d never be able to eat some desserts again, he thought, not with the memories the scent of vanilla now evoked.

  


\-----Friday, June 7, 2013—8:24pm-----

Reese stood in the hallway near the dining room and made last-minute adjustments to his one, meager piece of attire—a too-small thong of sheer, turquoise lace, designed for the anatomy of people without a penis or testicles. It was nowhere near enough to cover his bulge. This was just how Elias liked it.

He breathed deeply to steel himself, to enter the necessary headspace, then began a slow march, eyes forward, into the dining room, where Elias, Anthony, and the eight dinner party guests had finished eating and were enjoying wine and conversation. All talk ceased as they leveled appraising stares at the new arrival. Reese approached Elias at the head of the table and turned, standing at attention two feet to Elias’s left, facing the seated crime lord but staring straight ahead.

“John, so good of you to join us,” Elias grinned, raising his wine glass in mock salute. He looked up and down at Reese’s impeccable physique, paying special attention to the tiny lace thong which, obscenely, forced parts of Reese’s scrotum and the base of his cock to peek out from the sides and top. He licked his lips appreciatively and leaned closer to John’s crotch to better inhale the lovely aromas of vanilla and Reese’s natural musk.

Reese wanted to cover himself, to run away, to beat Elias to a pulp and snap his neck for making him do this. He remained standing at attention, eyes forward.

“Some of you have attended one of these gatherings with John before,” Elias addressed the group. “For the new guests, some ground rules—No smoking in the house. No scat-play or water-sports outside of the designated bathroom. If I ring the bell once, wrap up your activity with John within the next few minutes. If I ring the bell twice, stop and let someone else to have a turn; no complaining about this. John will be with us until—” He checked his weighty, expensive watch. “—Eight twenty-five in the morning, so pace yourselves accordingly. And, most importantly, no one may cause John any injury that would inhibit his ability to do his job forty-eight hours from now. John has important work to do, as you all know.”

The energy of the room turned more hostile at the reminder. Reese stared straight ahead, according to Elias’s standing orders for these appointments, unable to look at the dinner guests just yet. How many of these criminals had he beaten up or shot? How many had lost hundreds of thousands, or even millions of dollars because of his interference?

“Anthony, my dear, do you have everyone’s test results?” Elias asked of the man seated to his right.

“All clear, Boss.”

“Excellent.” Elias clapped his hands together and turned to the guests. “You all understand why this is necessary, I hope. It’s for my own safety, as well as yours. We’ll all be dipping our brushes in the same pot of paint, so to speak.”

A few guests chuckled.

Elias stood and gently placed a hand on Reese’s cheek. “So lovely.” With his other hand, he brutally pinched one of Reese’s nipples as hard as his strong fingers could, then tenderly stroked his fingertips up across Reese’s partially lace-covered manhood. Reese remained expressionless, standing at attention, staring straight ahead. Elias placed his hands on Reese’s shoulders and planted a soft kiss on his lips, tongue seeking entrance. Reese complied, opening his mouth to Elias’s exploring tongue, gaze still frozen. After several moments of amorous but one-sided necking, Elias broke away and gave Reese’s purpling nipple a quick lick. “Well done, John. Now go ahead to the game room and kneel. We’ll be there shortly.”

Reese turned and slow-marched out of the dining room, just as he’d entered, not daring to groan with pain and revulsion until he was out of earshot. He went down another hall to the “game room.” There was no billiard table there, and no dartboard—Just a plush king bed in the middle of the room, the mattress covered with a rubber sheet, the headboard and footboard covered with numerous points for attaching restraints. Just a heavy-duty rack, stockades, a bondage barrel horse, and other BDSM furniture that Reese didn’t even know the names of. Just a waterproof floor painted to look like hardwood, accented with washable rugs. Just a vast array of sex toys, restraints and pain-play items, some downright frightening, displayed on every wall. Just gallon-size pump-dispensers of lube strategically placed around the room. Just comfortable chairs for onlookers, or for those who wished to be serviced while seated.

He went to the center of the room and knelt, where there was no rug to cushion his knees. He held his hands behind his back, stared straight ahead, and waited.

 

\-----Saturday, June 8, 2013—9:38am-----

John arrived back at his loft, missing his jacket and overnight bag. Harold was there again, waiting for him. Bear gleefully approached John, but then held back, sensing that his Alpha’s movements were off.

With Harold offering a supportive shoulder, John limped stiffly across the room and straight to the bed, where he collapsed onto his belly and moaned brokenly.

Harold set about taking off John’s shoes, horrified to find his socks sticky with blood and the bottom of John’s feet torn and raw, as though they’d been whipped. With the trauma shears from the medical kit, he cut through John’s trousers, belt, and shirt to assess the damage, then took out his phone to send a text message to Dr. Enright.

_Please report to JR residence for urgent medical situation._

 

\-----Saturday, June 8, 2013—12:11pm-----

Maddie Enright had offered to stay and help Finch clean John up, but Finch had sent her along with his thanks.

Using rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, Harold gently and patiently wiped at the word “CUMSLUT,” which was written in permanent marker across John’s chest, and the word “CUMWHORE,” which was likewise written across the small of his back. He didn’t want to cause too much irritation, so he didn’t scrub hard enough to get all of the ink, just yet.

Slowly and gently, Harold used a warm washrag to bathe John’s battered body, wiping away grime, dried surgical iodine, bodily fluids that Harold didn't want to guess the origins of, and the lingering scent of vanilla, being careful to avoid getting the numerous dressings and bandages wet. After dabbing him dry with a fluffy towel, he placed cloth-wrapped ice packs over the areas that would benefit, and covered John with a warm fleece blanket.

Bear jumped onto the bed and settled against John’s front. Harold started to object to this, but reconsidered. Taking off his own shoes and belt, he curled up against John from behind, spooning him gently.

John woke slightly from his doze, in the haze of powerful painkillers. “Harold?” he moaned, his voice cracking from disuse.

Harold kissed his nape. “I’m here, John.”

 

\-----Saturday, June 8, 2013—4:12pm-----

At Harold’s insistance, John was able to eat some saltine crackers so that he wouldn’t be taking the first of the antibiotic pills on an empty stomach.

While John went back to dozing, Harold placed a call to Elias.

“Harold, I’m terribly sorry about John’s condition. I made it abundantly clear to my guests that he would need to be able to work again soon, but I neglected to supervise the group sufficiently. Things got out of hand. It won’t happen again.”

Finch trembled with rage. “I should hope not,” he spat in a near-whisper.

Elias snorted softly. “Easy, Harold. Remember that I hold all the cards—All the files, I should say.”

Finch kept his mouth shut, still fuming. If Elias was angered, he could release one of the files he held, each containing confidential infortmation about someone in the Witness Protection Program. There was no way to know which individual hard-copy files, among all those kept by the U.S. Marshals Service, had been secretly photographed. All Finch and Reese could do to protect these witnesses was placate Elias.

“Look, I don’t want you to be too upset with me,” Elias continued. “To make it up to you and John, I’m calling off July’s get-together. John can take a break to recover, and we’ll resume the normal arrangement in August. The first Friday, of course. But when that time comes, I will not tolerate postponement or excuses. Understood, Harold?”

Harold answered with a curt affirmative and ended the call.

 

\-------Friday, August 2, 2013—6:01pm-----

Harold carefully packed a small bag with a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, his shaving kit, a change of underthings, and the painkillers he used on a daily basis for some partial relief from the chronic pain in his neck, back and hip. He zipped the bag, then paused. After a moment of thought, he unzipped the bag and added a tube of Nupercainal ointment, which he’d taken from John’s side of the medicine cabinet.

John had healed well from his previous appointment with Elias. After four weeks he’d been back to work, putting his life on the line and saving the Numbers. He never complained.

But just the day before, John had been shot. Drs. Enright and Tilman had repaired the damage and reinflated his lung. They were watching over him at the safehouse, in shifts. His prognosis was good.

Harold had asked them to keep him sedated until Saturday, at least.

 

\-----Friday, August 2, 2013—7:55pm-----

Anthony Marconi opened the door to the palatial mansion with a grin. “Good evening, Harold. We’re so glad you could make it.”

\----------

*REMINDER: This story can be considered complete at this point. Do not proceed further if you do not wish to read graphic content.*


	2. A Contingency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With John recovering from surgery, Harold takes his place at Elias's event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *THIS CHAPTER IS EXPLICIT*

\-----Saturday, August 3, 2013—9:52am-----

“Where shall I take you, Mr. Wren?” the driver asked as the Towncar pulled away from Elias’s mansion.

Harold wanted to go back to sitting at John’s bedside as he recovered from the gunshot. He wanted to down enough pills to take away all of the pain and turn off his mind, which would be far more than a safe dose. He wanted to curl up in bed and sleep, without the terrifying dreams that would surely emerge.

The driver slowed to a crawl in the upscale residential neighborhood, stalling for time before he had to commit to a highway. “Mr. Wren?”

This time, Harold startled at hearing his alias.

The driver glanced at Harold’s bloodshot and tear-swollen eyes in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Wren, where would you like to go?”

John. No, he didn’t want to upset John. But John would still be sedated. He wouldn’t have to know, yet.

Harold told the driver the cross-streets nearest the safehouse, feeling as though he was speaking on autopilot. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position by leaning heavily on his good hip and the car door, taking pressure off his back, bad hip, and perineum.

 

< < < < < \-----(Rewind: the previous night) Friday, August 2, 2013—7:57pm-----

“We’ll have some patience tonight, as you learn the ropes,” Anthony smiled sweetly as he escorted Harold down a hallway and into a bathroom. “The enema hose is connected to the shower system,” he noted, pulling the shower curtain aside so that Harold could see. “Plastic nozzles for the hose are in the drawer right here. There’s a bottle of lube alongside the shampoo and shower gel. Please shave all body hair, clean and prep yourself, then get dressed and find us in the dining room.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a purple lace thong that must have been manufactured with the body of a petite young woman in mind. “This is what you’ll be wearing tonight.”

Harold felt his gut sink. “Underneath my clothing?” he asked, not at all hopeful.

Anthony grinned. “No, I’m afraid not. Just the thong and your glasses, nothing else.” He stepped out and closed the bathroom door behind him. “Don’t keep us waiting too long.”

 

\----- Friday, August 2, 2013—8:42pm-----

It was no surprise to Harold that the purple thong was woefully inadequate for covering his private parts.

He limped slowly and awkwardly, barefoot and all but naked, through the mansion’s ground floor and toward the sound of chatting and laughter. The air-conditioning chilled his still-damp skin, perking his nipples and causing his genitals to retreat inward. He pushed his glasses up his nose, realizing that his hand was trembling.

A deep breath taken and slowly released. Just get it over with. John had endured this far too many times. Harold could take it.

He stepped shyly into the doorway. Elias took notice of him immediately. “Harold, welcome!”

Harold froze, feeling far too many eyes upon his bare body, and upon the grotesque, red scars covering his hip. A glance at the dinner party guests and he stifled a gasp. Harold recognized all of them—hitmen, enforcers, drug distributors, career criminals of various kinds... All of them the friends and business associates of Elias. All of them with a grudge against Finch’s small operation.

“...Harold?”

He looked forward at Elias with the creeping knowledge that he hadn’t heard whatever his Master for the night had been saying.

Anthony stood from his seat at Elias’s right and approached to take the thickly-scarred back of Harold’s neck in hand, gently but firmly leading him closer to the crime lord.

Elias went on to address his guests, gesticulating at Harold and his near-nakedness. Harold couldn’t absorb a word of it. His head was swimming and the room was spinning. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating on not fainting, not vomiting.

His thong was roughly pulled from behind, abrading his sensitive flesh, then went slack and was yanked away. He opened his eyes in shock and turned his upper body to see Anthony holding up a knife and the now-cut purple thong. Harold was standing, now truly naked and vulnerable, in front of everyone as they laughed. He covered himself with his hands and looked away.

Elias tut-tutted and reached to push Harold’s hands away from himself, then cupped Harold’s stubbled scrotum in his own hand, looking up at him with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Harold, you must listen if you hope to obey.” A possessive squeeze to his right testicle, between fingers and thumb, just hard enough to be painful. “This night will be much more pleasant for you if you do as we ask.”

 

>>>>>\-----Saturday, August 3, 2013—10:24am-----

Harold entered the safehouse, relocked the door, and reset the security alarm. He dropped his overnight bag on the floor nearby and started to take off his suitjacket, grunting at the pain this movement caused across his bleeding back.

“Oh! Hi, Harold,” Dr. Megan Tilman said, coming out of John’s bedroom. “I thought you might be Maddie arriving for her shift.”

Somehow, Harold had forgotten that John would not be here alone. “Hello.” He switched from taking the jacket off to putting it back on. “How is John?”

“He’s doing fine. Still sleeping.” She seemed to notice Harold’s discolored face and his puffy eyes. “Um, Maddie said that you wanted to keep him sedated today. Is that still true?”

Finch felt a little dizzy. “The situation that might have upset him has passed. Please use your best judgement now. Do whatever will help Mr. Reese remain comfortable as he recovers.”

Megan nodded and went to the kitchen area, still keeping a concerned eye on Harold. “Maddie and I are planning to have breakfast when she gets here. Would you like some eggs?”

“No, thank you.” Harold walked slowly, gingerly, toward the bedroom door.

“Are you all right? Your face... And you seem to be limping more than usual.”

“I’m fine, thank you. I- I’d like to rest now.” He stepped into the room and softly shut the door behind him for privacy.

The shades were drawn, allowing only somber gray light to fall across John’s still form in the hospital bed.

Harold reached for John’s hand but stopped, instead limping to the en suite bathroom to wash his hands. He’d taken a shower again before leaving Elias’s mansion, unable to wait another moment to wash the crusted fluids from his body, despite the painful open wounds across his back. And yet he still had the irrational feeling that his hands, and the rest of his body, were dirty.

Hands washed, he lowered his pants and underwear. He then cautiously peeled the now-sticky and blood-soaked washcloth, taken from Elias’s bathroom, out from between his buttocks, where he’d pressed it to absorb any blood that might otherwise leak through his trousers. It made a sickening ‘squish’ as it fell into the wastebasket. He was too tired to fetch gauze from the first aid kit, so he replaced the soiled washcloth with a fresh, clean one from the cabinet, breathing deeply to avoid making a sound as he placed it against his torn opening.

After pulling up his pants and washing his hands again, he took off his glasses and splashed water in his face. The night was over. The nightmare was over. He was safe now.

One of them would have to go back in another month.

His blurry reflection in the bathroom mirror froze at the thought, then its pale, indistinct face contorted in an expression of anguish. Finch’s mind felt numb, and he had the disconcerting sense that the emotion-filled face in the mirror was not his own. He reached for his more heavy-duty painkillers in the medicine cabinet and took the maximum dose.

Exhausted, he staggered to the king-sized bed to John’s left, took off his suit jacket, shoes, belt, and glasses, and lay down on his good side, facing John. The sound of John’s slow breathing, just two feet away, combined with the painkillers entering Harold’s bloodstream, soon lulled him into an uneasy, unrestful fog that only resembled sleep.

 

< < < < < \-----(Rewind: the previous night) Friday, August 2, 2013—9:21pm-----

“There we are, clearly labeled for everyone to see and use,” Elias smiled as he capped the marker. He stepped away to reveal the game room’s wall mirror behind him, so that Harold would see himself—Naked except for his glasses, wrists handcuffed behind his back, the words “PUBLIC CUMBUCKET” scrawled in large, block letters across his freshly-shaven chest, easily legible even in mirror image. The group surrounding them chuckled at Finch’s expression.

Anthony crouched next to him and tied a pink, lace ribbon painfully-tight around his scrotum, then looped it just as tightly around the base of his penis, and finished by tying a floppy bow. Finch felt as though he would faint. Anthony looked up at him, straight in the eye, and winked as he yanked Harold’s balls hard enough to elicit a choked yelp. The group laughed louder.

“I still can’t believe we’ve gotta settle for this broken-down, old cockrag,” said Bill, a long-haired, blond drug boss.

“Our regular fucktoy should be back next month.” That was Jimmy, a lanky, baldheaded bombmaker in Elias’s employ.

“Guess I can close my eyes,” Bill conceeded.

Vince Arcetti, an arms trafficker who walked with a cane thanks to an encounter with Mr. Reese, licked his lips. “As long as we get to hurt him, I don’t give a shit what he looks like.” 

Elias sat in a nearby chair and opened his pants to expose himself. “Anthony, my darling, please bring me the public cumbucket.”

Anthony shoved Finch toward Elias, then pushed his shoulders down, to make him fall to his knees at Elias’s feet. Finch gasped at the pain in his knees and Anthony took the opportunity to grab him by the hair and force his open mouth around Elias’s swollen, leaking cock.

“You pathetic, geriatric slut,” Elias hissed. “Suck me off and make it good.”

The spectators laughed and clapped in anticipation.

“Suck it!” Elias repeated, taking hold of his ears and jerking him closer, which sent a jolt of pain through Harold’s fused neckbones.

Finch tried to comply with Elias’s command, but the increasing pain in his genitals made him falter for a moment.

Elias pulled out of Harold’s mouth and brutally slapped him across the face, bringing a series of claps and cheers from their audience. “Anthony? I think he needs more motivation.” 

Anthony suddenly shoved Finch down onto his side, making his shoulder and bad hip take the brunt of the fall against the hard floor. Finch gasped for breath and tried to hold back a cry of pain. Anthony rolled him roughly onto his belly, which put uncomfortable pressue on Finch’s swelling genitals, then paused for a moment before he began pressing something smooth and hard against his opening.

Finch tried to relax, to press against it to allow it entry. Although Finch had prepped himself to the best of his ability in the bathroom, and although the object seemed well-lubricated, Anthony was callously intent on pushing it in, whether Finch’s opening was ready or not. Finch clenched his eyed shut and took deep breaths, willing himself to adjust to the sting of his stretching sphincter and to the intrusion—the heavy anal plug, its wide flared base with its two black-coated wires hanging out of his body— that filled him and poked against his prostate painfully.

Anthony lifted him by the upper arm to return him to a kneeling position, clipped the ends of the two long wires to a device the size of a television remote control, and handed it Elias.

“This,” Elias said crisply to his captive, as he adjusted a dial on the device, “is level three of six.” He pressed a button.

Harold shuddered and fell over again as his rectum was assailed with rapid and painful electric shocks. The group laughed and whooped as Finch thrashed futilely against the onslaught of sensation.

The harrowing intensity of the object’s pulsing zaps in his tender canal and against his prostate, the throbbing agony in his tightly-bound manhood, the many other aches and bruises he’d acquired through the rough handling he’d received so far this night, the unending pain his damaged body already brought him on a daily basis, the humiliation—It was all too much at once. Harold broke, unnable to hold back his tears, screams, and sobbing, as he writhed on the floor for all to see.

  “God, I love the way he screams,” Jimmy declared, stroking himself through his pants. “I like it when we get some noise out of ‘em.”

After several moments, the electrical stimulation stopped. Harold lay alternately sobbing and gasping for breath, curling into as much of a fetal position his cuffed wrists and his injured spine allowed. He felt that he would have been made to ejaculate were it not for the tight ribbon cutting off the bloodflow out of his overly-engorged cock and his aching scrotum. How much longer until he developed permanent nerve damage?

“Please,” he begged Elias. “Take it off, take it—”

“The ribbon will be removed when you have swallowed every drop of my seed,” Elias cooed, to the amusement of his guests.

Finch worked, as quickly as he could, to get back on his knees without the use of his arms. He moved into position and sucked Elias into his mouth, to the delight of the onlookers.

Harold devoted himself to the task, pushing all the torment to the back of his mind, as best as he could, choking back blubbering sobs around the cardinal red head of Elias’s prick. He was used to compartmentalizing the agony his broken body brought him, day in and day out. This torture was harder to block out, as the horror and humiliation of his situation stayed, razor-edged and in-focus, in his consciousness, with every bob of his head, with every undulation of his tongue, with every hollowing of his cheeks, with every taunt from their audience.

After what seemed an eternity, Harold brought Elias to climax. He reluctantly gulped the mouthful of bitter fluid Elias gave him, trying to focus only on the crime lord’s promise that the ribbon would be untied. The group applauded and jeered.

Elias put his hand in Harold’s hair and tilted his head and stiff neck back, so that Harold, sweating and bright pink, was looking up at Elias’s face through fogged glasses.

“Open,” Elias ordered, inserting a finger to probe Harold’s mouth when he complied. Seeing no sign of his semen left in Finch’s oral cavity, he smiled. “That was... adequate. But you’ll get better with more practice. Anthony?”

With Anthony’s tug on one of the ribbon’s ends, the bow came undone. He roughly untied it the rest of the way and removed it, freeing Harold’s aching and swollen-purple genitals to throb painfully as normal bloodflow returned and the swelling began to diminish.

Harold curled in on himself as he knelt and tried to recover some semblance of composure.

Elias placed a hand on Harold’s head and stroked across the older man’s forehead with his thumb. “Keep up that level of enthusiasm, or I’ll need to bump it up to level four.” He dangled the remote control in Harold’s line of sight.

 

>>>>>\-----Saturday, August 3, 2013—11:05am-----

Harold was awakened by the two doctors calling his name and shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes but didn’t have the energy to fight through the haze of medication to respond.  “...Harold? What happened? Your back is bleeding through your shirt. Harold?”

He was only dimly aware as they checked his pulse. Then they began unbuttoning his shirt. 

No. No. He didn’t want them to see. He didn’t want to be touched. Their hands were on him. They were pulling his clothes away to look at him. His heart raced. He curled his arms against his chest and shuddered, screaming without sound, clenching his eyes shut.

Maddie caught a glimpse of black marker ink on Harold’s pale skin, visible through his thin cotton undershirt. “Oh shit. Megan, stop. Back off.”

They took their hands off him. His heart continued to pound so fast that he could scarcely tell when one beat ended and another began, chest heaving with every terrified breath.

“What’s going on?” Megan asked softly.

“He’s been assaulted,” Maddie whispered, her memories of caring for John’s injuries, only two months prior, still fresh and sickening. “Harold?” she asked softly, crouching so that she was at his eye level. "It’s Maddie Enright. Your back is bleeding. Is it okay if we take a look?”

Harold opened his eyes after a few moments. Maddie was close enough that he could see, even without his glasses, that her eyes were full of concern. She’d looked the same way when she’d cared for John.

He glanced past her, at John, still asleep, an oxygen canula in his nose. He remembered the horror and worry he’d felt the last time John had come back from a night at Elias’s. He remembered how relieved he’d been that John could allow himself to be treated, despite his psychological trauma and embarassment.

Harold didn’t care about himself anymore. He didn’t care that he’d been injured, violated, defiled. But he knew that when John learned of these desecrations of Harold’s body, he would feel them as if they’d happened to his own. It would be better for John if Harold received medical attention.

“Please help me,” he whispered, tears again flooding his tired, reddened eyes. “I’m hurt.”

 

< < < < < \-----(Rewind: the previous night) Saturday, August 3, 2013—12:49am-----

Harold woke up coughing on the cold, hard floor, gagging as he tried to bring up what he knew to be a guest’s hot semen from his lungs.

A bell rang twice from somewhere in the distance. “Bill, remember the rules. He has to be able to breathe,” Elias laughed.

“He shoulda done a better job,” Bill replied from a nearby chair, zipping up. He snatched the remote control away from Anthony and suddenly Harold was spasming soundlessly on the floor, tears streaming, his cock releasing not even drop of moisture after so many painful, forced ejaculations under the compulsion of the electric buttplug.

When the electrical pulses stopped, Harold lay quietly for several seconds, exhausted, chest heaving. He barely had the presence of mind to roll onto his side before vomiting the night’s accumulation of ejaculate from his stomach. Some of the men cheered and laughed at the sizable puddle as they poured themselves more wine and continued to drink.

Elias approached to see what all the fuss was about. “Oh, dear. The public cumbucket needs to clean all of that up.” He went back to the other side of the room, where he resumed chatting and drinking with one of the guests.

Anthony smirked and nudged Finch’s flank with his boot. Mentally too far gone to even hesitate, Harold rolled more onto his belly and began to lick up the vomited jism, the side of his face still resting on the floor.

As Harold worked, the spectators half-drunkenly talked and joked. Harold didn’t process any of it, except for when one interjected with “I’m bored with his mouth.”

The buttplug was suddenly yanked out of Harold’s ass without additional warning. Harold paused his lapping to shudder and and weakly moan from the sharp burn of the object being wrested from his abused, swollen and electrically-singed hole, then resumed his assigned task.

When the floor was clean, Anthony and Bill took him by the upper arms and led him to a what looked like a black vinyl-covered barrel attached to a metal stand. They pulled him onto the barrel lengthwise, his legs straddling its width and the tops of his feet resting on the floor. His head hung forward over the edge, as far as his neck would allow. The handcuffs were removed and Harold let out a moan of relief as his arms fell to hang down for a few moments on either side of the barrel.

Finch lay limp as they secured large leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, then fastened these to D-rings on the metal stand, keeping his feet off the ground and giving his hands nothing but the barrel’s smoothness to cling to.

Anthony briefly kneaded Harold’s exposed and readily-accessible, plump buttocks, then slapped them in turn, hard enough to leave two angry pink hand-prints on his pale skin. “What the fuck happened here?” he wondered, pointing to the thick and ropy red scars that crisscrossed Harold’s left hip and lower back. “This is the nastiest-looking carcass I’ve ever had. I'm not even sure it’s worth getting my dick dirty.”

Harold barely reacted. He tried to keep his mind adrift somewhere far, far away.

“Just close your eyes when you do him,” Jimmy suggested. “At least he whimpers nice.”

“Assuming he don’t fall asleep on us, here,” Anthony chuckled. “Bill, you got something for that!”

Laughter. “You know I do!”

  Anthony’s hands suddenly covered Harold’s mouth and pinched his nose shut. Harold stuggled, trying to breathe. Just when he thought he would pass out again, one nostril was released and someone stuck something inside it. He inhaled greedily out of necessity, bringing a line of white powder in through the straw along with the precious air.

The group erupted in laughter as Finch felt his consciousness turn inside-out, his heart rate skyrocketing, a sheen of fresh sweat erupting from every inch of his skin. It felt frighteningly good, but the dubious pleasure was vastly eclipsed by his fear that his heart was being overclocked to the point of meltdown.  

Anthony repeated vicious slaps across Harold’s ass, laughing at the trembling reactions this brought out in the newly-cognizant older man. “Boss, you want first round in this ass?” he called to Elias.

“No, thank you, my darling. I’ll have another turn later,” Elias answered, still chatting with other guests in a corner of the room.

“Guess I got dibs, then,” Anthony grinned. He opened his fly, took a few pumps of lube into his hand from a nearby dispenser, and slapped the cold goo, hard, against Harold’s already-tortured hole. He placed the head of his cock at Harold’s entrance, then rammed himself balls-deep with one violent shove.

  The sting and burn were dreadful, bringing fresh tears to Harold’s eyes as he was savagely rocked back and forth with Anthony’s thrusts. He wanted to hold back his groans and whimpers so that the group wouldn’t hear him, but he didn’t have the strength to stay silent.

 

>>>>>\-----Saturday, August 3, 2013—9:21pm-----

John woke slowly, with the distinct feeling that something was very wrong. His ribs and chest ached. There was something in his nose. Someone had his hand. Eyes closed, he could smell blood, antiseptic... Vanilla.

He sat up in a panic, eyes wild and searching the dimly-lit room for danger.

Startled, Harold woke from his own doze upon the king bed next to John’s hospital bed, still holding John’s hand. He turned on the bedside lamp, collected himself and put his glasses on. “John,” he said softly. “You’re safe. It’s all right.”

John was still orienting himself to the situation. Wound dressing on his lower chest and back, hospital gown over that. IV line in his arm. Oxygen canula in his nose.

He was in the safehouse. Finch was on the bed near him, wearing lightweight pajamas.

Even with the canula in his nose, he could smell that Finch reeked of vanilla.

It all came back to him—For weeks, he’d been dreading going to Elias’s again. The day before he was due to return, he’d been shot while saving a Number, and then... nothing.

Nothing until he’d woken up in this room with Finch, who smelled like the shower gel in Elias’s guest bath.

“Finch,” he whispered, throat aching, stomach turning as the knowledge of what has occured sank in.

“I’m here,” Harold whispered, stroking John’s hand softly.

“You shouldn’t have gone,” John whispered, his eyes filled with tears and fury.

Finch squeezed John’s hand and set his jaw for a moment to keep it from trembling. “You know I had to.”

“I wanted...” John turned away and hung his head. “I wanted to protect you. You should have waited until—”

“John—Elias wouldn’t have...” He swallowed, having a hard time finding the words he needed. “He wouldn’t have accepted a postponement. I had to go, or someone in the Witness Protection Program would have been offered up for slaughter. Perhaps their whole family.”

Reese squeezed back. Of course his soulmate had needed to go, selflessly offering his body up for the sick pleasure of Elias and his friends, in order to save the life of a complete stranger. If Harold had done otherwise, he would not be Harold.

John turned to look back at Finch and nodded in understanding, tears no longer held back. “I’m so sorry, Harold.”

Harold brought John’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles softly. “And I, too, am so sorry, my beloved, John.”

“Are you injured?” John asked, nearly choking on the last word.

Harold’s eyes darkened. He looked away.

“Tell me,” John pleaded.

“Don’t think about my injuries,” Harold whispered, putting his glases back on the nightstand, turning off the lamp, and letting go of John’s hand. “I’m trying not to. Just rest.”

John watched silently as Harold carefully rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes.

His mouth and throat were parched. There was a bottle of water on the table to his right, just within his reach.

John lay down and focused on his thirst.


End file.
